


Night Watch

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fred Thursday and the aftermath of the first episode, from the POV of his wife, Win (who’s apparently more predictable than ‘the fixed motion of the heavens,’ but he seemed to like that about her.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Watch

**Author's Note:**

> My first "Endeavour" Fic, written after the first episode. We're getting the new ones over here very soon, so I hope to be inspired to write more. It feels weird to be in at the start of a new fandom.

Win Thursday stepped into the lounge, knitting in hand. The room was cozy, the street beyond silent. From the little Fred had said over the phone, and even more so from the tone of his voice, she knew it was going to be a late night. Bypassing her usual place, she sat in the battered armchair that was Fred’s favorite, tugging the ottoman close enough for her shorter legs. She settled in, propped her slippered feet on the ottoman, and drew a deep breath. The scent of her husband: aftershave, hair tonic, and Fred Thursday, surrounded her. She set to her knitting. Winter would be coming soon, and the old cardigan he wore around the house was getting threadbare. The room fell silent save for the quiet click of her knitting needles and the occasional noises of the house settling.

It was after two when she heard a car pull up outside and a single door open and close. It didn’t leave afterward; Fred had signed out a car, then. It made sense: there was likely no one to drive him, and the buses had stopped running over an hour ago.

After twenty years of marriage, she knew all the subtle differences of his footsteps in the house. The heavy tread as he stepped through the hall, pausing to hang up hat and coat, told her things had not gone well. The door to the lounge, which she’d left ajar, opened wider and Fred stepped through.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” he told her softly, a tired warmth tingeing his words. “You’ll be tired tomorrow.”

“I’ll live. How did it go?”

“Good and bad. No, stay,” he told her as Win started to offer him his chair. He sank onto the sofa, hands linked between his knees.

“Would you like tea?”

“Thanks, but I’ve had too much tea this evening as it is.” Fred sighed. “We caught poor Mary’s killer, and solved the Percival case as well.”

“I thought that was a suicide.”

“So did we, until this evening. Young Morse figured it out. He’s a clever lad—I’m going to ask him to transfer here and be my bagman.” Fred outlined the sordid story to his wife.

“So we arrested Rosalind Stromming after she finished her aria, and took her back to the station for questioning. Morse was right upset. The lad has a taste for opera, and she was a particular favorite of his. Looked like his world had come down around him. She confessed to killing Mary Tremlett and then killing Miles Percival, framing him for Mary’s murder and making it look like a suicide.”

Win was quietly aghast. Then her practical side kicked in. “Why did she kill them? She would have had her husband well cornered if she confronted him: his affair with an underage girl come to light would ruin him. He wouldn’t have dared put a toe out of line with that hanging over his head.”

Fred couldn’t resist a bitter chuckle. “Remind me never to cross you, Win.”

“You wouldn’t do that to us. You’re the most honest, decent man I know, and I trust you to the ends of the earth.”

Fred shifted a bit, gratified and embarrassed by her down-to-earth declaration of faith in him. They had been through so much together: the War starting when they were engaged, twenty-plus years of marriage with all the changes that came with that, raising two children. They’d become like two trees intertwined with one another.

He returned to the subject at hand. “I don’t know why she did it, pet. It’s like one of those operas, all love and betrayal and murder. And then, after we tucked her up in her cell for the night, she managed to hang herself. Morse tried to save her, rescue breathing and all, but she was already gone.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in Rowan Stromming’s shoes: wife dead after confessing to a double murder, driven to it by his affair with a fifteen-year-old from the local girls’ secondary academy.”

Fred rubbed his eyes tiredly. Win rose. “I’ll do something on a tray for you before bed. You’ll sleep better with a bit of food in you."

“I’ll have a quick bath while you do that. I need to wash this day off of me.”

She had an egg on toast and a glass of milk ready when he emerged in pyjamas and dressing gown, feeling somewhat better.

“I’m worried about Morse. He took it all so hard: Rosalind Stromming’s confession, then her death. It’s hard anyway, the first time you have a case like that.”

“You’ll look after him, Fred,” Win told him, squeezing his broad shoulder as she moved around the cheerful little kitchen.

Not long after, he followed her upstairs. Win snuggled close to him in their bed.

“I’m knackered, Win,” he told her apologetically.

“I know. Just a cuddle. Go to sleep. It’ll all look better in the morning.”

Fred settled against her, relaxing into her warmth, and closed his eyes.


End file.
